Watch yourself guys
near these leaves of three
along and off the trails we
stroll – the anointed
pretty little leaves
how wet and ready
to wipe fire
across your skin
look how the bees search buds
and how they search
for better buds
‘Animals aren’t affected by urushiol’
I tell my boy
he asks me why
the plant exists
I try not to answer
with some conclusion that some of nature
needs defence only against people
‘Perhaps there’s something special about them
we don’t know yet.’
it’s not always the little rusted spring
that slipped off the governor
on the mower I borrowed
.
for the Australian xi
given a ticket of leave from the aboriginal camp
west of Brisbane
on a chaperoned train ride to Adelaide
instructed to
there’s Jardine lying on the crease
holding his head
Eddie’s boomerang wrist from a short run
I reckon Eddie
would have been first
by his side
to make sure he was alright
the next ball
a scorching yorker
Eddie hiding from headlines of himself
on the train back to Cherbourg
///
A friend of mine has this great poem The Cover Drive published on Cricket website espncrickinfo at the moment. It’s a cracking piece (though I want to argue against its premise – right up until he mentions Gower and my side of the courtroom is voiceless – you’ll see what I mean.) Check it out here The Cover Drive by Janaka Malwatta.
before Saturday:
twelve outgoing tides will suck broken matter out from the mangroves
a seem of coal in the bowen basin worth $keeping-there has never been polled and will not get to vote
the word ‘asylum’ will not get any sleep
the entire 147 hours
the leader of the First Nations party, Maurie, who doesn’t use a computer is contactable on his mobile or you could also be the 516th person to like the Facebook page.
314 displaced koalas will find they like the taste of smaller trees
the number of hairs on the heads of the major party leaders will be considered not a fair comparison
five million pencil ticks will think outside the box
please note: you may separate your thoughts using the multi-coloured commas provided
please also note: counting down is frownable
It has never looked like the right key. Hanging
beside the others. I try it often and slowly
listen to the tumblers say yep yep yep
yep.
Shake my head. Sometimes
I quarter turn it
just to be sure.
I can’t open it.
That would be devastating.
Your ear scored well
they tell me.
Do you want to learn
the trumpet? Nah, I want to play
drums.
You have a good ear
they repeat
what about piano
or trumpet?
Thirty years
tapping a foot
at the bar
lifts his head
closes eyes
each bend
of the jazz horns.
.
I sat with a poem
over burrito and coffee
in a shopping mall. Shot
‘getting to know you’
questions. We eyed
each other, politely. Like trying to listen
to a foreign accent. I motioned
to my ears the noise. We had nothing
in common. We stayed a little
longer then suddenly it held up the teaspoon
and bent it before my eyes.
.
.
Shirt wriggled, hung
broad tailed, tie loose knotted,
sock ankled.
.
At lights hitting
the walk button that’d blow
up the mathematics block. Unkempt
doesn’t reflect on him
but fashions his scorn
for Miss forcing
x – 3 = fix
.
your uniform.
“Where is your hat?”
y + up yours
he wishes he could say
louder. Her eyes heard
it anyway.
.
Taking time in the mirror
to fix skate cap 12deg from centre, shorts
2/7ths below boxers. A new
.
slouch on a deck
of forward momentum.
.
.
4000psi shuddering
skeletons. A billion bees
drumming the rest
of life to silence. Through mist, dank light
a cold room wall brought back
to bone.
.
4000psi shuddering
steel racking
stripped of pallets, flesh
of fruit and veggies now steaming
in a pile of January sun.
.
Another avocado trapped
above my head, the forgotten
dead hanging just below high tide.
.
While sleeping, the river crept
into Rocklea. Entering cucumber coldrooms
and banana gas chambers. Waterproof Haas treading
warehouse swamp for days, keeping it’s
head up like an instinct. Sensing
rest in an elbow of steel racking.
.
Washing salad
on a loading dock, spread
across the street, scooped
by excavator.
.
4000psi shuddering
this hanger back to 4 deg
in a few days
to fill with new fruit.
.
.
I must have been
about seven.
We would often
go fishing as a family.
This time uncle Dennis
came with us and said
to my folks
in his broad Bristolian accent,
“He is no fisherman!”
My mum defended in her
diplomatic way.
I just stood and listened.
.
This piece isn’t about
the small man
my uncle Dennis must have been,
saying this to a
seven year old boy.
Everyone
has had a voice
saying
“You’re not good enough.”
from a teacher, parent or someone.
my question is…
.
Why would my memory
choose
to
remember
t h o s e w o r d s
from 25 years ago?
.
Why, when my memory
has forgotten countless
better memories like
the scent of the air
between lips as I leaned
in for my first kiss?
Or the feeling of my feet first
standing on a surfboard,
skidding along a moving curve of ocean.
.
Why keep a photo
of uncle ‘I’m not good enough’
on the wall
of my memory?
Why play that scratchy sound recording
so crisply in my
adult ears?
.
It seems so stupid.
.
.
.
.
.
a kick in my back
from the depths…
of her womb
.
.
.
Tomorrow marks three years since Isaiah died. It is true, time makes a difference. It doesn’t heal, it becomes more familiar each bout in the ring. We learn to live with the pain and carry on. Written back in January 2008.
.
In my pocket is a piece of my heart.
It is a good place for it.
Close by to me
within reach.
.
This piece is broken from the rest.
Its weight changes
like a piece of wood
burdened with water, it sinks
.
deep
into
sorrow.
Too heavy for my pocket
.
I pull it out
carefully, but the edges
are too sharp
to hold for long.
.
Not for my hands
the pain
cuts my eyes
and into my right. Tears
.
splash concrete.
I place the piece
back in my pocket
and continue working.
.
.
it hardly seems fair
this piece of outdoor
furniture demands
my attention on a day like today
the first sun
in two weeks
wind howling
to play with that kite
we’ve used once
my son jumping
to bounce on the trampoline with me
until our heads turn into electricity
but the gaping
grains of cypress whine louder than the wind
.
the skin on my hands would love to be bathed
in oil – to look and feel like last year
instead they’ll smell
like turps for the next two days
next time
I sit on this bench I expect
it to write me a better
poem
than this one.
.
for Leah (waiting for paint to dry)
.
sometimes
the rainforest
comes off the mountain
and tours
Brisbane’s suburbs
playing its music
bringing the earthy smell
of moist underforest
and clean decay
.
the unfamiliar band sit in trees
playing foreign chords
and we turn our music off
to listen
their sounds seems to call
the mountain weather
down off the
Border Ranges
through Beaudesert
across to the Bay
.
rain falls like a slow thought
rain falls through an invisible leafy canopy
drop by drop
unlike those handfuls
thrown down
in angry Summer storms
.
each drop has its own name
the terracotta tiled roofs shrug
without much comment
tin roofs gossip
exaggerating the heavier showers
giving each drop
its own microphone
.
a bed reading atmosphere
painters complain
construction sites stand
in yesterday’s footprints
.
clouds cuddle into isolated hills
Mt Cotton, Mt Gravatt, Enoggera Hill
awkward, not used to intimacy
.
all of Brisbane drinks for days
not in gulps
but lifting the schooner slowly between
telling old stories of fishing
in Moreton Bay
.
gum tree silhouettes
and bright grey sky
light up puddles on the road
making screen saver circles
never on a loop
.
I really wanted to set this poem out differently. Let me know what you think.
To read poem in pdf format: did you hear her
I’m never sure if I should post poems like this. I wrote it Tuesday. It was Isaiah’s birthday, he would have turned three. I found myself thinking about MY loss and not really about him. Then snapping out of it, I again realised how ridiculous the process of grief can be and where the mind wanders. A psychologist told me that if the model of Adam and Eve in a perfect garden (all perfectly created) is our origin then we were never created for grief. We weren’t given the proper capacity to handle loss very well. Perhaps that is why it is so awkward and painfully emotional. Scribbling the emotions down has certainly helped the process of grieving for me and I hope you don’t mind me sharing it.
.
self-indulgent grief
is a sticky film
the memory likes
to touch
feeling the tackiness
fingering the sorry feelings
wallowing in
memories
hopeless sadness
pain
sorrow
to feel their tackiness again
.
like touching the sticky photo
of my brother’s engagement party
I’m standing to the side
an empty shell
still in shock
from the night before
wondering what I’m doing there
my Uncle’s voice plays in my head
“….you’re unbelievable
to be here”
but not coming
would be worse
and I play the tape again
to feel the emptiness
.
C.S Lewis
describes it:
a ‘bath of self-pity’
‘the loathsome sticky-sweet pleasure
of indulging it –
that disgusts me.’
.
and suddenly
you awaken
and notice your memory
fingering the
grief
.
tearing your hand away…
.
“Happy Birthday Isaiah!”
“How are you little guy?
You are three today.
You would be running around
with your brothers
skinning knees
kicking footballs
riding a new tricycle
down a big grass hill
.
Have a great birthday
where you are,
skinning knees
kicking footballs
riding a new tricycle
down a big grass hill
we love you mate
Happy Birthday!”
.
.
Did you see that?
Did you see the person you want to be?
She just appeared
like a side character in a novel
She is gone now
Again
But you saw her right?
You caught a glimpse?
When you just said those
real words
and gave your eyes
and heart
to that frightening story
you just listened to
for the past half hour
in this busy party
.
.
The morning fog played at our feet
swirling softly, dulling voices
just like a mountain village street
Brisbane Markets shouting choices
.
“Bananas… Cav bananas here!”
but today his voice is swallowed
in padded walls of atmosphere
Low, heavy, carved out and hollowed
.
Then it lifted, it disappeared
Swiftly whisked by the waiting sun
like a silk table cloth is cleared
by the waiter’s hand on the run
.
The strains of change for every eye
if it paused, looking up to see
the vast blue wispy marbled sky
above the markets of Rocklea
.
